Olive's Story
by Pottergirl1
Summary: Even though she acts brave at school, Olive's home life isn't so great. Follow her through abuse, forgiving, and even love. Eventual Folive. Updates every Tuesday!
1. Olive's Story

**(Okay, this is my newest ANT Farm fanfiction! I'm really proud of it in fact, and I've been meaning to post it ever since we got an actual archive, but I never really got around to doing it because I typed it on my Droid and I needed to put it on a Word Document. Since I did, please don't be expecting frequent updates. You take what ya get and you don't throw a fit! :D **

**Sorry for making the AN so long, but I need to inform you of a couple things. ONE-flames WILL NOT be tolerated. If you absolutely must, do it in an anonymous review so I can delete it. Thank you. TWO-The song titles at the beginning are the songs I want you to listen to during the story. I know even I don't do it when most authors tell me to, but this is important because it actually helps the story along a little bit. Thanks again. )**

**Olive's Story: Misunderstood-Pink, Tied Together with a Smile-Taylor Swift.**

"Olivia." Michelle Doyle stood in the doorway. Her daughter showed no sign of hearing her, merely stared blankly at the ceiling. waited, but when Olive showed no sign of responding, she sighed.

"Mother," Olive said to the dingy cream wall she was facing, lying on her back on the top bunk of a bunk bed, "that is not my name." Michelle looked tired, as though they had had this conversation before. She apparently didn't want to argue though, for she simply looked worn out and sad in that way a person does when the world is fighting you and winning.

"Okay, Olive." The blonde showed no satisfaction at being called such either, but she reached up and dragged a hand through the crooked part in her long, scattered waves. "Your father and I are going out." Olive waited. That was no news. Usually they didn't even tell her, just left a note on the table and a slam from the door. Her mother stepped into the dim light from a solitary sunbeam radiating through a thin red blanket used as a makeshift curtain for the huge window next to the girl.

She had on a green dress adorned with sequins, her glittery heels stuck in the faded white carpet as she awkwardly made her way across the room. "Olive," she started while jerking a heel out of the rug, "I just," here she reached the bed, "wanted to say," she grabbed Olive's wrist so she faced her, "that I love you." A pleading face gazed into Olive's. She jerked her wrist away from her mother's reach, curling herself across the outer edge of the bed.

The face showed anger for a moment, then the tired look returned. Her hand stretched toward her daughter's hair for a fraction of a second, but pulled back. She turned and walked the way back in silence. At the doorway she looked back hesitantly, but her daughter had already resumed her deadpan stare at the ceiling. Just leave, she begged her mother, please leave.

"Michelle! I don't have all day!" Her father pounded up the stairs and Olive winced, but just barely. A tall, brown haired man with hard green eyes adressed . "Is that _thing_ taken care of?" He asked, jerking his head towards Olive. He frequently spoke as though his Olive was a slug, something grotesque that couldn't understand him. And Olive, therefore frequently felt like yelling: "This THING can understand you!" But she didn't dare. "We need to go. You," he jutted his chin at Olive, "will not be coming out from your room." Olive clenched her teeth but did nothing else to acknowledge that she had heard him.

The wall had become boring after just a few seconds so she had begun reading a book in her head. Black Beauty was a classic, and the poor horse's tragic abuse made her feel better.

She heard a front door slam. "Bye"-would it be so hard to say one word? "I love you too, Dad." She hissed bitterly as she swung her legs over the side to the ladder. Wasn't this the part where a fairy godmother would come and whisk the neglected, tragically misunderstood child away to a world of happiness? Yeah right, she had stopped hoping a long time ago. Tonight would be another screaming match, tomorrow another day of clipped words and frosty glares.

She had never thought, originally, that he would hit her. Not his Olivia. Not his little girl.

Famous last words.

It happened at a dinner. Her father was angry, she could tell, his apple eyes were burning. Her mother was smart, handing over food in silence, eating dinner without any commotion. She was less so, trying to lighten the mood with happy smiles and joyful exclaimations. Since no one would answer her beyond death glares and tight smiles, she reached over in front of her father to grab the salt. He grabbed her wrist, enraged, and squeezed hard. She shrieked quickly, tears filled her eyes as she tried to jerk it out of his grip. He simply squeezed harder, his eyes filling with malice. He finally let her go, she clasped her wrist with one hand, scared, and looked pleadingly towards her mother. She had been watching the entire event unfold, her mouth pressed into a thin line. She didn't react for a moment, but then pursed her lips and simply scolded Olive for being so disrespectful and rude.

Olive was between outraged and miserable; she had run up to her room in tears; and had spent hours crying and wallowing in self pity, hoping someone would come up to apologize and comfort her with a cool hand on her forehead.

But nobody did. Finally, with dry eyes and a pounding headache, she fell asleep. It was her first time crying herself to sleep; in her opinion it was the worst feeling anyone could wish to have. She wouldn't wish the hopeless feeling on her worst enemy.

She had woken up this morning with a bruised arm and a sad memory. Her pillow was still humid with tears; the back of her sore head was damp and warm. She would usually not even go down to breakfast just to spite her parents, but what good would that do? She was hungry, and maybe an energizing breakfast would wake her up.

School was bittersweet, an escape from her father but a chance to be discovered. Somehow, school gave her an excuse to look happy, and cheerful. It was like she was a solider, carrying a secret that would not be called such if she could reveal it, but if it were so, would enlighten everyone on exactly how brave she was.

She reached the kitchen. Without even glancing over, she knew her mother was sitting at the table, pretending to read her newspaper, but really looking over her cresent reading glasses and watching her daughter intently.

Olive crossed the kitchen, mantaining a chilly silence as she poured her juice and picked a blueberry muffin. The muffins had colorful cupcake wrappers protecting it from crumbling. Hmm.

As soon as she stepped out of view she sprinked the top of the muffin on the beige tile. A devious smile appeared breifly as she climbed the stairs, but was gone quickly, only leaving her now-usual hollow look. For what was her life if she was reduced to dripping food on the floor for happiness?

After closing her door quietly as not to get yelled at, she opened her pink swirled dresser. It resided in one corner of the room, which was dimly lit in accordance to a dark pink sunbeam shining through the blanket coated window. She sighed and walked over to turn on the light, blinking rapidly as light flooded the room.

A mirror was perched on a tack above the dresser; it was heart shaped and pink outlined. Olive caught a glance of herself in the reflective glass. She looked terrible; her blond hair was a mess, her blue green eyes red and puffy. Her skin was unusually pale, in accordance to the fact that she just woke up, and huge grayish bags resided under her eyes.

_Ugly._ It was her father's thought of her, most likely her mother's, and she had adopted it with the logic that she couldn't be disappointed if she had a low opinion of herself anyway. She was ugly; had horribly pale skin and stupid squinty eyes. No one would ever like her. She just wanted someone to think she was pretty, maybe love her and care for her. Was it really too much to ask?

No more of those thoughts, she told herself firmly. It is time for school, time for happiness, time to show off your gift. For Olive, despite her father's rude insults, refused to believe she was annoying. She was delightful, she told herself (and others), optimistically. For, really, God must have given her some sort of talent, right? Her gift was her reason for living.

Olive Daphne Doyle was special. It was true, she told herself. Just wait and see.


	2. The Unavoidable Kiss

**(Insanely short chapter, but crucial to the cliché plot. Sorry it's been forever and this chapter is suckish and stuff, but I'd still love to hear your thoughts, good or bad. And all my reviews were beautiful. I am so glad that my story means that much to you!)**

Olive's alarm blared. She groaned, rolling over to shut it off with a quick slap, taking care not to let it go for too long lest it wake her father, who had come in at two am wasted and collapsed on the couch. A hangover was to be expected, Olive calculated, but if he wakes up at exactly six thirty, she may be able to pedal her bike to school that early and wait, as she always did, in the library.

It was a big day today. At least, it was for her father. He hadn't stopped talking about the company dinner he had tonight for weeks, and Olive had been instructed to stay in her room so many times that she had been planning her entertainment since last Tuesday.

She couldn't ask her friends to come over, obviously, and she couldn't call them because her father had broken her phone about two days previous. Which reminded her, Chyna would definitely be wondering why she hadn't texted her for two days...She'd have to tell them she fell with the phone in her hand. That would take care of it.

Speaking of Chyna...Olive whipped her head around and stated at the clock. It was almost six! She'd have to do without a shower today. She'd take one tomorrow.

Suddenly she realized the loud snores from the living room outside her door had stopped. Her father was beginning to stir. She crossed her fingers tightly and held her breath until she heard a loud snorting sound and knew her father was asleep again. Letting out a huge sigh of relief, she leapt from her bed and started getting ready as fast as she dared.

The only clean clothes she had were a large pink t-shirt that read "Camp Add em Up", an algebra camp she had attended when she was seven, surrounded by algebraic equations, and a pair of plain dark blue jeans, along with her old green floral belt. She shrugged. Oh well. Glancing at the time, she threw the clothes on and slipped on her shoes before pondering a way to exit her room without waking the sleeping giant, so to speak.

Her door creaked, so she sucked in her stomach and pressed herself flat against the wall to try to squeeze through the crack already ajar. The piece of metal from her belt clanged against the wood momentarily, and she sucked in a breath, listening hard for any sign of movement. After waiting a full minute, she carefully slid herself though the crack and creeped though the living room.

Passing her father, it was all she could do not to gag. She had never smelled so much alcohol at one time, and she tried not to breathe as she made her path to the door. Grasping the brass handle, she savored the sweet taste of victory before slipping out the door.

...

Once outside, she felt for her iPod in her pocket before pulling it out and switching it on to her best playlist. Hearing the first melodious notes of a song that had held her through the teary, pain-filled nights, she smiled for the first time in weeks.

/The power lines went out,

And I am all alone.

But I don't really care at all,

Not answering my phone./

Olive laughed bitterly at the ironic lyrics, but then hopped on her bike, ready for the moments of complete bliss that came with listening to her favorite playlist while racing down a hill. The wind combing through her blonde hair, adrenaline overtaking her senses...she honestly couldn't think of a better feeling, even if she did have to rebrush her hair afterwards.

...

Olive grinned as she reached the school, Chyna and Fletcher's bikes were already in the parking lot. Chaining her bike up, she headed inside.

A blast of cold air greeted her, she shivered at the contact blending with the warm, humid air of a particularly hot early morning breeze. Shrugging it off, she entered. The scent of fresh paint wafted from the A.N.T Farm, and she smiled with the knowledge that her best friend was here already.

She decided not to take her earbuds out. No one was here anyway, no one could reprimand her if she didn't. Besides, A. weren't treated exactly the same way as the big kids when it came to electronics.

She slumped to slide her backpack off her shoulder to hang on one hand, preparing to set it down as soon as she stepped foot within the A.N.T. Farm. Swinging it down on the floor, a shocking sight met her turquoise eyes.

Fletcher (her best friend) was kissing Chyna (her other best friend). By her calculations, she thought faintly, this was not supposed to happen.

Then her mouth tasted oddly like pennies, and she raced to the nearest bathroom stall, Fletcher's calls of "Olive!" echoing in the empty hallway behind her.


	3. Comfort

Olive's Story Chapter 3 

**(I really appreciate the reviews, although I'm pretty sure this isn't the best A.N.T. Farm story out there it was gratifying to receive such a compliment and I've neglected to thank Princess Celestia for that. And to aConfusingStateOfMind, your review was detailed and absolutely lovely, I adored it! Every single other person who reviewed deserves magical cupcakes and ice cream, you are awesome, I appreciate you all.**

**Also, I wanted to talk to you guys, I want to change the title to "Tied Together With A Smile". What do you think?)**

Olive's head was spinning.

Everything was hot and sticky and smelled like the horrible, nauseating smell of her own throw up. It was disgusting, embarrassing even. All of Olive's thoughts felt rushed, unfinished, scared, sick. It was like her normally organized brain was a cyclone, twisting and thriving, plotting and reviewing and leaving her behind. Nothing she thought made sense and she honestly didn't know why. All she knew was Chyna and Fletcher had kissed and Fletcher was running after her.

And she was mad.

Very mad.

"Olive!" Fletcher sounded almost concerned. She could've almost believed he was if she hadn't looked up. His brown eyes were a bit too…_giddy_ for someone who was completely and fully invested in the well-being of his best friend. And then the room was spinning and her head was in the toilet again.  
>Fletcher made some sort of noise and was waiting with a damp paper towel when she got back up. His brown eyes searched hers and she knew he was waiting for something, a reassurance, a way to know they were okay.<br>But they really weren't, she knew it. She didn't know exactly why her stomach felt so weird or why it was somehow their kiss that got her to the bathroom, frantically searching for anything to puke in, but it did. She didn't know why, and she didn't like the feeling.  
>But he was there, pressing something cool to her forehead and waiting, and it felt so, so good. So she smiled weakly and closed her eyes, blocking out anything and everything but the feeling of her slightly relieved, mostly sickly humid forehead.<br>Fletcher kept switching out paper towels and so they sat there for maybe fifteen minutes, just on the girls bathroom floor. And the bell rang at some point, because she winced at the irritating agony it brought to her head and had leaned very briefly on Fletcher's shoulder before realizing it smelled like a nauseating mix of Chyna's vanilla perfume and his own cologne and opted for the disgusting feel of her head on the toilet again.  
>Fletcher got up just a little bit after that, somehow still continuing to hold the paper to her head and pull her up at the same time. She opened her eyes for a grand total of 2 seconds before realizing the lights were too bright and groaning, pulling a jacket that smelled like Fletcher (and just a little vomit) closer to her body. She felt cold and hot at the same time, and Fletcher gave her a sympathetic glance before steering her into her classroom and to the double desk they shared. The teacher glared at them and Fletcher made sure she was comfortable before offering an explanation. "Sorry we're late sir. Olive was-" Oh, crap. She raised her head, forced her eyes open, and cut Fletcher off smoothly. "I was studying in the library and lost track of time. Good thing Fletcher found me, I might have been there all day." She looked at Fletcher with a truly thankful glance, and he just looked confused. The teacher cast her an approving look before turning back to a lesson he was probably not teaching in the most effective way.<p>

But Olive didn't feel quite up to interrupting today, so she simply pulled the pea-green hoodie over her head and closed her arms over her head so that she couldn't see anything but blissful black. She was almost lulled to sleep by the teacher's repetitive mumblings, and she would've been had a white piece of paper not been shoved into her her arm. She groaned softly, grasping it with her fingers. The surface was cool and she contemplated pressing it against her forehead briefly before remembering that she was in the middle of class and opening it discreetly beneath her table instead.  
><em>Why couldn't I say you were sick?<em>  
>She bit back a sigh. Sweet, innocent Fletcher. It only took her a moment to write back, coming up with an excuse in under ten seconds.<br>_ My Moms at work and my Dads with my puppy. She's sick._  
>He looked confused again, and she cursed herself for overestimating his gullibility.<br>_You have a puppy?_  
>Crap.<br>_Yeah, Monica. Remember?_  
><em> No...<em>  
>She masked her irritation quite well, but she only wrote one last note before burying her aching head back in her arms and ignoring them for the rest of the period.<br>_Well, she exists._  
>Just like the rest of her supportive, happy family.<p> 


	4. Morgan's Story

Fletcher's dark blonde hair moved every time he talked, Olive noticed. The blond was sitting on the couch in the ANT Farm, seemingly staring off into space but actually taking almost creepily detailed notes on Fletcher. Everything from his scowl to his smile was recorded, and she continued happily smiling, caught up in her own little world of photographic notes. The weirdest part though, was that she wasn't doing it. It was like some section of her brain had been captured by the artist, along with her annoyingly prone to blushing cheeks and cackling laugh, which turned into an eerily feminine giggle whenever he was around. No part of her was overlooked, she was completely and utterly captive.  
>How annoying.<br>"Olive!" She was jerked out of her trance. "Yeah?" "You've been staring into space for like five minutes...are you okay?" Five minutes, thirty six seconds, her brain corrected, while her cheeks did nothing but flush like a schoolgirl's. "Uh, yeah. The um...ceiling was acting weird!" Okay, now she was officially insane. And ow! Why was she twisting her curls around her finger like a maniac?  
>Was she...flirting?<br>Olive stood up quickly, waving a preoccupied goodbye to a confused Fletcher. She was headed straight for her most secret spot in the entire school.

The second she got to the second floor janitors closet, she immediately wanted to puke. She always did, coming down here. The overwhelming bleach fumes made her eyes water, but it was private. It always was.  
>Using the remaining bristles of the sadly mangled broom in the corner, she attempted to clear the layers of grime from the previously white floor. Although she only managed to clear about a few chunks of dirt, she plopped herself down in her small spot in the right corner and gathered her knees up to her chest. Her eyes fixated on a shadowed spot between the wall and the door and she stared without really seeing, waiting for her waterworks to start.<br>But they didn't. Olive blinked rapidly, trying to work up enough moisture for a good, long cry. God knows her emotions needed it. But instead, Olive felt her clouded mind begin to clear, her thoughts sharper and not muddled like before. Her thoughts still couldn't detangle about Fletcher, but still she felt as though she had a better perspective about her life in general, wiping the tears from her eyes and straightening up.  
>Suddenly, a sliver of light sliced the shadowy dwellings of her sanctuary. She thought she saw a clump of blondish-brownish hair. Olive cursed.<br>"Hun, you really shouldn't use language like that!" Morgan half-scolded as she opened the door fully, revealing her mustard yellow janitors uniform and mop bucket. She gestured to the stringy, dirty white mop behind Olive. "Get that for me, Livvy?"  
>Olive smiled as she complied. Morgan was the only one who was allowed to call her that, and the only one who knew about her, ahem, home issues. Morgan had found her sobbing in her dubbed "private place" before school, her bruises exposed and fresh. Even in her tears, she had rushed for a mangy blanket to cover herself, and found Morgan above her, sympathy raw in her chocolate eyes, holding out a bandage.<br>They had talked then, Olive explaining (lying at first, underestimating Morgan's uncanny ability to pick out even the smallest of fibs, but eventually telling the truth, her entire past sucked into Morgan's empathetic amber orbs) and Morgan just listening, nursing her wounds with gentle but nimble fingers. It was one of her Dads most vicious beatings, and Morgan had always told her she was lucky, not dying because of her help.  
>Morgan was one of her best friends, a pure golden soul packed into the face of an angel, motherly instincts at the ready. She was only 22, but worked as a janitor after her parents kicked her out for accepting the proposal of a disproved of boy. They were rich, but when they perished in a plane crash in the West Indies, she got none of her expected inheritance. Noah, a leather jacket wearing, sarcastic tongued, not well brought up boy with a heart as kind as Morgan's, held her as she cried for their death. "I always regretted not telling them sorry," she told Olive, her golden eyes fixed on something unseen, "Even if it wasn't my fault, we could've made it better. Together. They were my parents-we grew up, matured, and learned together. We could have at least faked a bond." She always grew angry at this point, Olive steadying her hands and comforting her until she calmed down.<br>"Thanks, Olive." Two clusters of freckles moved on her cheeks as she smiled. Noticing Olive's daydreaming, her eyes narrowed in concern. "Are you okay?" Olive snapped to attention. "I'm fine." She mustered up a ghost of a smile, and Morgan raised an eyebrow. "He better not have done anything else to you. After what we had to clean up last time, that-" Morgan inserted some words into the sentence in place of her father that she would prefer not to repeat-"had better not lay a finger on you." Morgan opened her slender arms, curling Olive into her warm embrace, careful not to hold her too tightly in case of hurting her bruises. Even with her caution, Olive couldn't suppress a wince. Morgan sighed into her blonde curls. "I'll get the bandages."

"You know, Olive," Morgan began thoughtfully, pasting a crystal blue bandage over a particularly gruesome injury, "We never do talk about boys. How's your love life?" Olive stiffened. Morgan pretended not to notice. "Fine." Her voice hardly shook, and she grit her teeth as Morgan rubbed some sticky cream onto an almost healed cut on her leg that still sent painful shivers up her spine whenever anyone brushed by it.  
>Morgan grinned. "C'mon, I know you're hiding something. If only I could remember his name-Freddie, Fabian..."<br>"Fletcher!" Olives girly giggle abruptly cut off with Morgan pressing the anesthetic cream onto her back. Morgan's laughing eyes quickly sobered at the look in Olive. "What happened?"  
>Somehow, Morgan sucked the whole story out of her, tears and all, while treating her wounds with a practiced hand. Grabbing the candy bar out of her lunch pack, Morgan split it in half and they ate, talking for almost the whole period. Suddenly, Olive remembered something. "Didn't you come in here for the mop?"<br>Morgan's eyes grew wide. "Crap." Olive barely had time for her to sign a pass to class before Morgan skidded out of there, forgetting the mop bucket in her haste. Olive tapped her foot while she waited. When Morgan came back, she handed it to her with a purposeful eyeroll. Morgan stuck out her tongue at her, grabbing it and leaving once again.  
>Olive smiled.<p>

"Hey, where were you last period?" Olive avoided Fletcher's probing eyes as she responded carefully, "Clinic." It sounded perfectly believable in her eyes, but Fletcher's narrowed with something very close to suspicion. Luckily though, he let the subject drop as their science teacher took the floor to say something about density.


	5. On the Spot

**Really short and extra fluffy, but well, what can I say? Actual plot soon, promise. If any of you out there still are fans of this story, you can thank Emmi194 for the update. I was just here, not thinking at all about this story, when suddenly I got an email from saying this lovely reviewer wanted an update, and well, how could I say no? I hope you like it but if you don't, please feel free to leave constructive criticism. All I ask is you keep it clean :)**

Ah, math class. Doesn't everybody love the smell of whiteboard markers and desperation in the morning?  
>"Today, class, we'll be learning about-". Fletcher stopped listening there. Even the blank point on the white wall he was currently staring at was more interesting than whatever boring lecture Ms. Featherbottom was choosing to deliver today. He suppressed a yawn.<br>Behind him, Olive traced her pencil idly on her lined notepaper. Nothing she was meant to be learning today would ever be forgotten from her brain, so why bother? She felt slightly reckless, though she knew it was hardly anything to be excited about. She had never not taken notes in class, ever since she learned how to write. Even though she never forgot, she sometimes needed a reminder of what she'd learned. For tests and such...her father never expected less than a perfect grade from his 'freak' daughter-price of keeping her, she supposed.  
>Snapping to, she realized she had been intently staring at the back of Fletcher's head. Of course. She was only daydreaming, she didn't even get the pleasure-Olive bit back a groan. The pleasure-the kind that came with pain. This couldn't happen. Ever. He was the artist, the dorky one that loved her best friend, and she was little Miss Interesting Factoid, the freakish girl who always has the answer. Ugh. Even she was beginning to be a little disgusted with herself.<br>In front of her, Fletcher faked a yawn, actually tossing the gum he had hidden in his hand into his open mouth. Olive bit her lip to stop from smiling. She knew exactly what he was doing-she had taught it to him, long ago, in the era of Fletcher&Olive, not Fletcher&Chyna&Olive, with her name stuck on the back like a third wheel.  
>Tucking her hair neatly behind her ears, Olive was almost ready to simply close her notebook and stop the blank page from mocking her with the notes it lacked when suddenly-"Fletcher." And automatically, every muscle in her body strained to listen.<br>The teacher smiled maliciously. "Please explain the effect of the reflexive property in the equation on the board." Fletcher looked completely and totally lost. And immediately, Olive's heart melted.  
>Snatching up her pen, she began to scribble furiously. Some students even turned around to glance at her, the loudest noise in the whole classroom, now hushed to watch the downfall of their own solider. She didn't care though. Didn't even give it a thought. She was too busy. Explaining exactly the process she memorized in a cramped scrawl, Olive was red in the face by the time she was done, throwing down her pencil to roll across her desk as though it was her announcement of the finish line.<br>"Um, well..." Fletcher dragged out the word, drawing all attention to him as it became clear he had no idea. Some students began to snicker. Just as he was about to give up and admit his defeat, a sharp point stabbed in between his shoulder blades. Rubbing the tender bruise, he whipped around, only to find his best friend.  
>Pleading mentally for him to understand, Olive flicked her eyes back and forth, from his pocket to his face, urging his hand to go down. Keeping his eyes locked on hers (strangely, considering circumstances), his hand inched toward his pocket. The teacher cleared her throat loudly, making him snap around, the paper grasped barely between his two fingers almost slipping and yet still coming with him. Fletcher smirked. He had this. Audaciously, he stuck up one finger for "give me a minute" and felt the teachers glare piercing through his head as he looked down.<br>_The reflexive property means that they switched the equation around. Basically, it makes it more aesthetically pleasing...oh, you won't understand-" cross outs littered the page "-it makes it look better. And prettier, if you will. Interesting factoid about the reflexive pro-_  
>He stopped reading there.<br>Looking up, he winked at his teacher, who looked affronted by the whole ordeal. Folding up the page, he smiled with satisfaction. "The reflexive property twisted the equation around from having x on the right to make it on the other side. In the end, everyone wants the x on the left, right? The reflexive property just gives us a reason."  
>The teacher covered her mouth in a mock gasp. "Golly gee, well done Quimby. Though I was hoping you could do it without the help of your little girlfriend." She nodded to Olive, turning back to the board and trying not to laugh.<br>Fletcher looked confused, whereas Olive just blushed to the tips of her light blond hair. "He's not-well, I mean I'm not-he's dating-not me, I mean, ever-I mean, well, not that he couldn't-" she got a couple weird looks for that one "-what I'm trying to say is WE'RE NOT DATING!" She sputtered wildly. That last bit even got the teacher to turn and look at her, flabbergasted. Olive chuckled nervously.  
>"Well, we're not."<p>

**Alrighty then! That's some hardcore denial there, Olive ;) If any of you wonderful followers have any ideas, I will try my best to have them put in the story, but chapters should (SHOULD, no promises) be coming pretty fast soon, because I do have the layout of the story. So review quickly!  
>Luv, starlight, and YouTube,<br>Pottergirl1**


	6. Chyna's Big News

Hey guys! This story has come a long way from what I originally planned it being, but don't worry, everything will make sense soon! Actually, I like this story layout I have planned now better. It's so fun to write!

I love absolutely everybody who reviewed because you are awesome the end. Now, what are we waiting for?

...

Packing up her books in an organized stack, Olive was all ready to leave when suddenly, somebody grabbed her shoulder. Wincing only slightly, she turned around, books pressed to her chest in a defensive position (force of habit), and noticing she was face to face with Fletcher.

Gratefully, he smiled. "Thanks for, well, back there." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I totally knew the answer, though!" He added defensively, laughter in his eyes.

Olive laughed. This was real, this was familiar. "Yeah, that deer-caught-in-headlights look was really reassuring." She said sarcastically, thanking Fletcher fervently for giving her this. Making fun of him like this was exactly the way it should be, not jealousy and attraction and all those other new things she shouldn't feel when she looks at him. This was right.

He finished chuckling and picked up her books. Before she could even say anything, he said, "Uh-uh-uh. You did a favor for me, let me do one for you." Before she could even retort, he was heading out the door, leaving her to simply follow him to the cafeteria.

As they entered the door to the lunchroom, they were attacked separately by two different things-Olive by the disgusting, heavy smell that hung over the food like a poisonous gas, and Fletcher by a squealing, jumping Chyna. Her books fell to the ground along with his as he was wrapped in a huge hug. She was next, pounced upon by a wild Chyna.

"Guys, guess what?" Olive doubted she could, so she just waited for the screeching girl to get her story straight. Chyna gasped for breath before explaining everything.

"So, I was just in the ANT Farm, playing the violin and working on this new song I'm writing, right? When suddenly, DJ Jamz walks in!" Fletcher's jaw hung slack, and hers could only follow in suit. DJ Jamz was one of the biggest producers ever to record. He was also a radio announcer, playing most of his songs and artists specifically. "He said I have real talent and that he might feature me as his Shining Star!"

Shining Star was a huge program. Basically, DJ Jamz took one talent nobody had ever heard of and let them play an original song on his radio station, once per week. At the start of December, he had his "Star Showdown", where he took everybody he had let play and had all of his fans and artists vote as to who would win. The winner's supreme prize was that they got a record deal for DJ Jamz, and basically got their songs played at least once a day for the entire month of January. If they took off (and most did) it was highly likely for them to be signed for good and be a big star.

"Ahh, that's great!" Olive was the first one to hug Chyna, squeezing her so tightly she could barely breathe. "That's absolutely amazing!" Even though she and Fletcher were dating, Chyna and Olive would always be best friends. Nothing could ever change that.

"That's awesome, Chyna!" Fletcher grinned broadly.

"Isn't it?" She replied at once, smiling at both of her two friends. Suddenly, she grabbed Fletcher. Olive only had an instant to realize what they were doing before she pressed her lips against his. Blood pounded in her ears as she collected her discarded books, creating a mantra-

Not jealous. Not jealous. Not jealous.

Hugging her books to her chest, she slammed them on the table next to Angus, who was shoving the latest disgusting slop of the lunchroom down his throat. Startled at the outburst, he coiled up, almost as though he was expecting her to hit him next.

Disgust rose in her throat. She was no better than her father if he thought she was that violent! She spoke softly, straightening up her books. "Sorry, Angus." He relaxed.

"It's okay, Olive. But why are you so mad?" He continued to shove slabs of gray meat into his mouth, and Olive turned to face the wall to avoid gagging. But wasn't that just the age-old question? Why was she so mad? Fletcher was her best friend, nothing more, nothing less. And it wasn't like she liked him...in that way. She sighed.

"In all honesty, Angus..." She began, slumping her chin against her hand, suddenly exhausted, "I have no idea."

...

When Chyna and Fletcher stopped sucking face in the corner by the door, they bounced over, hands intertwined. Olive swallowed hard. This wasn't going to be fun. "Sorry about the whole book thing, Olive." Fletcher apologized, sitting down as close to Chyna as the benches would allow, which put her almost in his lap. Ick.

She forced herself to look away (the sight was strangely hypnotizing-probably part of the primitive human self-sacrificing instinct), and sighed out an obligatory response. "It's fine." Her words were cold and flat, but if he noticed, he didn't comment.

"Good." Fletcher wrinkled his nose as though he smelled something repulsive (which, with this cafeteria, was probably true), "Angus, what in the world are you eating?" He stuck out his tongue in distaste.

"I have no idea!" Angus answered happily, shoveling more in. Olive shuddered, making Fletcher glance at her again.

Clearing his throat, he prepared to speak when Chyna cut him off, "Oh, sweetie," she simpered. "Your hair is all messed up in the front!" Tugging his chin toward her, she cooed, "Let me make it better." Gently, she brushed the hair out of his face, taking much longer than she could have. Oliver's blood boiled. This wasn't working.

"I have to go to the library." She stated shortly, standing up and grabbing her books. Only Fletcher seemed to notice, tearing himself away from Chyna (for once, her mind added bitterly).

"What's wrong, Olive?" She bit her lip, turning her face away from him. She hated that tone-the puppy dog plead that wove into a persuasive question. It was almost enough to make her answer honestly.

Almost.

"Studying, you know," she answered evasively, trying to sound normal. Trying to keep her voice at a controlled, non-jealous level. Which, of course, she was.  
>Non-jealous, that is.<p>

"Right." Fletcher didn't sound quite convinced. She was relieved though-that sounded like a final answer. Ask me no more questions, I'll tell you no more lies.

Unfortunately for her though, her luck had already run out for the day.

"Olive?" She stopped on her way out, turning towards him.

"Fletcher?" She meant it to sound like a sigh of exasperation but it came out more like a whimper than anything. Her cheeks tinted pink, but he didn't say anything.

"Why have you been lying so much lately?" Oh no he did not. She sucked in a breath. The whole cafeteria had gone silent-it was all her and Fletcher, no one else in the whole room.

"You might wanna rephrase that." She informed him coldly. She wasn't in any mood to deal with his crap, not after the gag-worthy spit swap she had just unwillingly witnessed.

"Actually, I don't think I do." Fletcher crossed his arms, a steel in his eyes she hadn't seen before. "You've been lying about everything. Where you're going, where you've been-what's so bad that you can't even tell your best friends?" If he was ever unsure about his statement, he wasn't now. Her eyes narrowed.

"What are you, my mother?! Where I'm going, where I've been-" she put sarcastic air quotes around the phrase, "-is not any of your business! I have a life of my own, Fletcher, and I don't know why it's so hard for you to see that."

"Look, Olive," his tone softened. He took one step forward. In response, she took a step back. "I didn't mean to-"

"Well, you did." Olive cut him off curtly. The hurt in his eyes was unmistakable as he gazed at her. Olive wished she could take it all back somehow, but there it was-all out on the table.

"You've changed." He commented, narrowing his eyes.

She had to bite her lip hard to keep the tears back. "Yeah, well, so have you." And with that, she turned on her heel and marched out of the cafeteria.

...  
>After a quick cry in the bathroom, Olive dried her eyes and headed to the library. A good book always got her mind off things, and that's exactly what she needed right now.<p>

Opening the squeaky door jolted awake many snoring students, drowsing in drool puddles on their textbooks. She offered a 'my bad' shrug for interrupting, but her heart wasn't really in it. As she slumped down in her favorite red cozy chair with a thick, hardback copy of _Gone With The Wind_, she heard another squealing push of the door, this time more rushed and less apologetic.

Straightening up, Olive was able to see enough (over several heads) to notice it was Judy, the frazzled office student. Her frayed, bushy brown hair haphazardly squeezed into frizzy pigtails, she simply thrust a light green office slip at the librarian before practically running out the door.

A light green slip. Olive knew what that meant. One of these ding-dongs were going home! They all probably want to, she thought in disgust, observing their vacant zombie eyes and rumpled, sleepy hair. At least there they can take an uninterrupted nap.

Delving back into her open book, Olive was studying the character development of Scarlett when she heard-

"Olive Doyle, to the office for checkout."

...

Alrighty folks, you did it! That was all the boring part of the story and congrats, you got through! Now comes the cool parts. This is gonna be so much fun to write...

Luv, Dave Days, and writing quotes,

Pottergirl1


	7. The Surprise Announcement

**Rather long anecdote of Olive's in here, so please tell me what you think!**

"Olive Doyle to the front office for checkout." The librarian read, her confusion thickening with each word, her eyes widening. Everybody knew Olive Doyle-she'd always had perfect attendance, was never tardy, and most definitely, over all, if there was no other rule about Olive Doyle there was this one-she never ever got called out.

Ever.  
>So every zombie kid, sleeping or awake, opened their eyes and suddenly every eye was trained on her, the sound of her closing her book was a musty snap that almost echoed in the silent library, quiet enough for a pin to drop. Swallowing, she realized her throat was uncomfortably dry. As she walked quickly to replace the volume on the shelf, every head swiveling with her movement, she noticed her knuckles clenched against the hard surface, albino white shocking even against her pale skin. And that's when Olive Doyle recognized the rapid churning of her stomach and named it as a feeling.<br>She was terrified. And she had every right to be, which was what scared her the most. Not just the possibility that she was in trouble, the sickening almost certainty.  
>Nevertheless, she managed to pry her fingers off the book and leave it there, safe as she smoothed her skirt and walked away, trying and probably failing to keep the nerves off her face. She took her slip as her pass, ignoring the expectancy in the librarian's gaze as she slid her glasses down her nose.<br>Because honestly? She didn't have a public-friendly explanation yet.

"There she is!" Her father said, every inch the expectant, loving father.  
>She forced herself to smile at him. "Here I am!" She consented, allowing her father to wrap one arm around her.<br>"Wow, you are so nice for doing this for her!" Gushed the secretary, twirling an overly fat black curl around her finger. Olive was honestly curious in one part of her mind, what he had lied about, and in the other incoherently grateful she hadn't told the librarian a different story. She looked up at her father, a smile overtaking her features.  
>She should really take up acting.<br>"What'd you do, Daddy?" She asked, gazing up at him with what she hoped was pure adoration, but then again, she hardly had to fake it. She really did love this version of her father, the happy part of him she had never really gotten a chance to know. It was a game they played, the acting stunt with the wager of a broken bone, but it was nice to have a Dad, not just a cold, inconsiderate father. And sometimes she liked to pretend.  
>He smiled down on her benevolently, relishing in this particular lie. "I got her a new puppy! Her name is Amanda, and she's just the cutest thing. I found her-"<br>And that's when Olive's blood ran cold.  
>He chatted away with the secretary, but all Olive could hear was the blood pounding in her ears. It was things like this that sent the whole game crashing down to Earth, and she knew it was all hanging by a string anyway. If she ever had anyone to really explain this twisted mess to, she would probably have to start with the name.<br>Amanda. When she was four, she thought Amanda was the prettiest name in all the world. It was her great-grandmother's name, and she meant the world to her. Little, naive baby Olivia would prance around the garden screaming it, her Granny watching, content, from her wheelchair. She would bring frogs to her, squealing that if Granny only kissed them, they would transform into mysterious princes and whisk her away into the palace.  
>And the talks. She remembered the most odd, out of place pieces of her Granny, but the garden talks most of all. Granny would reply to her, "No need, I already have my prince," and gaze up at the sky like it reminded her of something bittersweet. Olivia would laugh and laugh and tell her that Grandpa was gone, and she couldn't be married to someone in the sky, and she would smile sadly and say she could try. Then, inevitably, Granny would ask why she couldn't just kiss the frog herself, and Olivia (poor, sweet little Olivia) would reply quite seriously that she wasn't a real princess.<br>That was Granny.  
>And Granny brought her up to sit on her knee and said she would always be her princess, and Olivia said that wasn't enough if you wanted to be in a fairy tale with princes. You had to be real. And Granny just kissed her head and said she was an angel and sent her off to the slide. And every time, they'd have the exact same conversation the next day, until it became routine.<br>In retrospect, she should've noticed the tired note in her voice, getting stronger with each day. But no one ever does, do they? And so little Olivia played on, until she was exactly five and one half years old. She remembered that clearly because Granny always celebrated half-birthdays, as fully as real ones.  
>And just after her cake, Granny had to be helped into bed. She was always to weary to comb out Olivia's hair before she went to sleep now like she used to, and she hadn't gone to visit the garden in weeks. The thing Olive remembered the most (because it struck her as odd at the time but was now excruciating to recall) was the last thing Granny did. She grabbed her hands, her wrinkled old ones easily folding over baby Olivia's, and she asked one single question.<br>"Do you think you'll get along okay without me?" Granny was starting to ask these questions more and more, and Olivia was running out of replies. So, she simply laughed.  
>"Granny, you'll never leave." Because in her mind back then, Granny never could. Granny cracked a wrinkled old smile (her very last) and closed her eyes.<br>In the morning, Olivia awoke to screaming and white hot pain in her chest and tears and clogged up throats. The thing that stood out was the note, placed perfectly folded on her favorite swing-  
>Dear Olivia,<br>You'll always be my Princess, even though I'm becoming your Angel.  
>Love,<br>Your Granny  
>And, pinning down the handwritten (because wasn't that just her style?) letter was a ceramic golden retriever. It gazed up at her with dark, sympathetic eyes.<br>And Olivia cried. She cried, and she begged, and she prayed, and she fought for any glimpse of getting her Granny back. And when that didn't work, she decided she needed a clean slate.  
>So Olivia christened herself Olive and threw herself into her schoolwork. And one day, she came home to find an abandoned golden retriever, hand painted and staring up at her with betrayal. It tugged at her heart strings, so she tied a ribbon to the space between its collar and neck and hung it on a tack on the corner of her room, and named it Amanda.<br>Amanda the last.  
>Jolting out of her daydreams, Olive felt an arm growing tighter around her ribs. The pain was only slight at first, but it grew rapidly into an almost blinding pain that turned her vision white hot and made her bite her lip hard.<br>Her father only continued to laugh with the secretary. It was amazing she hadn't broken a bone yet, and her subtle resistance was proving futile. Just as she was about to give up and just pass out from sheer physical trauma, the arm released her. Unrestricted blood flow was so dizzying that she almost didn't see the handshake and wink the assistant gave her father.  
>"Thank you for your time," her father was exceedingly polite, smiles and all. The secretary giggled.<br>"You better be good to him!" She called playfully after Olive, as all adults are bound to do, and Olive simply replied, never missing a beat, "Of course, he's always so good to me!"  
>He took her shoulder and forcibly escorted her out, not stopping to look back at the office girl. The second she was outside, he grabbed her wrists, forcing her eye to eye with him. Every time he did this, as cliche of an abusive move it was, she couldn't stop her veins jolting with icy cold fear.<br>The heavy scent of too much whiskey attacked her as she was pinned against the wall. Always the careful one, even when he was flat-off-his-face drunk, he checked to make sure no one could possibly catch him before snarling, "You promised you'd be home by twelve to clean the house! We have company coming over, Olivia! Probably better people than you've ever associated with, and the house is a mess!"  
>And there it was again-that desperate, clenching feeling in her throat that she had to swallow, because it meant she was about to cry. And in a fit of irrational frustration she screamed, "School's not even over yet!" And as the surprised gaze of his stormy eyes fixated on her, she was filled with the horrible, heart wrenching feeling of making a huge mistake.<br>For a moment everything froze. All she could hear was her breathing, a shallow pant, pressed against rough red brick. And then he smiled. A twisted smile that began to take over his whole face, and it was then that she thought, "Sick." And that was her only thought, reeking of sharp fear, as he released her. She heard a dark chuckle, one that chilled her to the bone. And that was it. He let her go, rubbing circulation back into her red wrists as they walked to the car.  
>It felt like walking to her own doom, walking to the strictly confining rusty red Jeep. And in some ways, it was. She felt her stomach turn at the thought of him driving, as drunk as he was, but waited until the car to timidly ask, "Dad?"<br>He opened the door, slamming it in on itself as he waited for her. "What, sweetheart?" His pet name was infused with bitter sarcasm, but she swallowed her response. She took what she got.  
>"I don't think you should be driving." Her voice got stronger with each word, but she almost whimpered with the look she got from him. She took it as a blessing that she didn't.<br>His voice was steel-cold, hard and impassable. She had fear coursing through her very heart as he said, "Are you doubting my driving, Olivia?" His voice got a tinge of mocking. "I'd _never_ let anything happen to you."  
>The sheer force of how true that sentence used to be hit her so suddenly she didn't expect it at all, and it clenched at her chest. And with the way her Dad was going, she supposed it would probably be safer to get in the car than to continue to refuse him, so she did. Before she could buckle her seatbelt, he flew chaotically out of the parking spot, nearly smashing into a car. She went lurching forward, but managed to catch herself.<br>As they pulled out onto the highway, she looked down at her seatbelt, buckling it securely. At the last second she looked up, able to see a blue car hurtling towards them, her Dad's lead foot slamming on the gas. She didn't even have time to scream.  
>The last thing Olive saw was black.<p> 


End file.
